"Come then, I'll put you in your train with your bag; and don't you goand speak to anyone about what happened here, and then you'll be quitesafe. Let Miss Starbrow think you are shut up safe out of her sight, andthen she won't trouble herself about you."

"There's no one I can speak to--I have no one," said Fan, mournfully;after which they went on to the station, and she was put into her trainwith her bag, and about three o'clock in the afternoon arrived atWestbourne Park Station.

There were clothes enough in her bag to last her for some time with thoseshe was wearing, and money in her purse--two or three shillings in smallchange and the sovereign which had been in her possession for severalmonths. Food and shelter could therefore be had, and she was not a poorgirl in rags now, but well dressed, so that she could go without fear orshame to any registry office to seek an engagement. These thoughts passedvaguely through her brain; her head seemed splitting, and she couldscarcely stand on her legs when she got out of the train at WestbournePark. It would be a dreadful thing if she were to fall down in thestreets, overcome with faintness, she thought, for then her bag and pursemight be stolen from her, or worse still, she might be taken back to thehouse of her cruel enemy. Clinging to her bag, she walked on as fast asshe could seeking for some humble street with rooms to let--some refugeto lie down in and rest her throbbing head. She passed through ColvilleGardens, scarcely knowing where she was; but the tall, gloomy, uglyhouses there were all too big for her; and she did not know that in someof them were refuges for poor girls--servants and governesses out ofplace--where for a few shillings a week she might have had board andlodging. Turning aside, she came into the long, narrow, crookedPortobello Road, full of grimy-looking shops, and after walking a littlefurther turned at last into a short street of small houses tenanted bypeople of the labourer class.

At one of these houses she was shown a small furnished room by asuspicious-looking woman, who asked four-and-sixpence a week for it,including "hot water." Fan agreed to take it for a week at that rent. Thepoor woman wanted the money, but seemed undecided. Presently she said,"You see, miss, it's like this, you haven't got no box, and ain't dressedlike one that lodges in these places, and--and I couldn't let you theroom without the money down."

"Oh, I'll pay you now," said Fan; and taking the sovereign from herpurse, asked the woman to get change.

"Oh, I must lie down now, my head is aching so," said Fan, feeling thatshe could no longer stand.

"What ails you--are you going to be ill?"

"No, no; this morning I had a fall and struck my head and hurt it so--look," and taking off her hat, she showed the plaster on her forehead.

That satisfied the woman, who had only been thinking of fever and her ownlittle ones, who were more to her than any stranger, and her mannerbecame kind at once. She imagined that her lodger was a young lady whofor some reason had run away from her friends. Smoothing down thecoverlet, she went away to get change, closing the door after her, andthen, with a sigh of relief, Fan threw herself on to the poor bed.

The pain she was in, and state of exhaustion after the violent emotionsand the rough handling she had experienced, prevented her from thinkingmuch of her miserable forlorn condition. She only wished for rest Yet shecould not rest, but turned her hot flushed face and throbbing head fromside to side, moaning with pain. By-and-by the woman came back with thechange and a very big cup of hot tea.

"This'll do your head good," she said. "Better drink it hot, miss; Ialways say there's nothing like a cup of tea for the headache."

Fan took it gratefully and drank the whole of it, though it was roughertea than she had been accustomed to of late. And the woman proved a goodphysician; it had the effect of throwing her into a profuse perspiration,and before she had been alone for many minutes she fell asleep.

She did not wake until past nine o'clock, and found a lighted candle onher table; her poor landlady had been up perhaps more than once to visither. She felt greatly refreshed; the danger, if there had been any, wasover now, but she was still drowsy--so drowsy that she longed to beasleep again; and she only got up to undress and go to bed in a moreregular way. The time to think had not come yet; sleep alone seemed sweetto her, and in its loving arms she would lie, for it seemed like one thatloved her always, like her poor dead mother who had never turned againsther and used her cruelly. Before she closed her heavy eyes the landladycame into her room again to see her, and Fan gave her a shilling to getsome tea and bread-and-butter for her breakfast next day.

CHAPTER XI

When Fan awoke, physically well and refreshed by her long slumber, it hadbeen light some time, with such dim light as found entrance through theclouded panes of one small window. The day was gloomy, with a bitterlycold blustering east wind, which made the loose window-sashes rattle intheir frames, and blew the pungent smell of city smoke in at every crack.She sat up and looked round at the small cheerless apartment, with nofireplace, and for only furniture the bed she was lying on, one cane-chair over which her clothes were thrown, and a circular iron wash-stand,with yellow stone jug and ewer, and underneath a shelf for the soap dish.

She shivered and dropped her head again on the pillow. Then, for thefirst time since that terrible experience of the previous day, she beganto realise her position, and to wonder greatly why she had been subjectedto such cruel treatment. The time had already come of which Mary had oncespoken prophetically, when they would be for ever separated, and shewould have to go out into the world unaided and fight her own battle.But, oh! why had not Mary spoken to her, and told her that she could nolonger keep her, and sent her away? For then there would still have beenaffection and gratitude in her heart for the woman who had done so muchfor her, and she would have looked forward with hope to a future meeting.Love and hope would have cheered her in her loneliness, and made herstrong in her efforts to live. But now all loving ties had been violentlysundered, now the separation was eternal. Even as death had divided herfrom her poor mother, this cruel deed had now put her for all time apartfrom the one friend she had possessed in the world. What had she done,what had she done to be treated so hardly? Had she not been faithful,loving her mistress with her whole heart? It was little to give in returnfor so much, but it was her all, and Mary had required nothing more fromher. It was not enough; Mary had grown tired of her at last. And nottired only: her loving-kindness had turned to wormwood and gall; the verysight of the girl she had rescued and cared for had become hateful toher, and her unjust hatred and anger had resulted in that cruel outrage.Now she understood the reason of that change in Mary, when she grewsilent and stern and repellent before that fatal morning when she wentaway to carry out her heartless scheme of revenge. But revenge for what?--and Fan could only moan again and again, "What had I done? what had Idone?" What had she ever done that she should not be loved and allowed tolive in peace and happiness--what had she done to her brutal stepfather,or to Captain Horton and to Rosie, that they should take pleasure intormenting her?

When the woman came in with the breakfast she found Fan lying sobbing onher pillow.

"Oh, that's wrong to cry so," she said, putting the tray on the table andcoming to the bedside. "Don't take on so, my poor young lady. Things'llcome right by-and-by. You'll write to your mother and father----"

"I've no mother and father," said Fan, trying to repress her sobs.

"Then you'll have brothers and sisters and friends."

"No, I've got no one. I only had one friend, and she's turned against me,and I'm alone. I'm not a young lady; my mother was poorer than you, and Imust get something to do to make my living."

This confession was a little shock to the woman, for it spoilt herromance, and the result was that her interest in her young lodgerdiminished considerably.

"Well, it ain't no use taking on, all the same," she said, in a tonesomewhat less deferential and kind than before. "And it's too bad a dayfor you to go out and look for anything. It's going to snow, I'mthinking; so you'd better have your breakfast in bed and stay in to-day."

Fan took her advice and remained all day in her room, thinking only ofthe strange thing that had happened to her, of the misery of a life withno one to love. Mary's image remained persistently in her mind, while thebitter wind without made strange noises in the creaking zinc chimney-pots, and rattled the window and hurled furious handfuls of mingled dustand sleet against the panes. And yet she felt no anger in her heart;unspeakable grief and despair precluded anger, and again and again shecried, her whole frame convulsed with sobs, and the tears and sobsexhausted her body but brought no relief to her mind.

Next day there was no wind, though it was still intensely cold, with adull grey cloud threatening snow over the whole sky; but it was time forher to be up and doing, and she went out to seek for employment. Shewandered about in a somewhat aimless way, until, in the Ladbroke GroveRoad, she found a servants' registry-office, and went in to apply for aplace as nursemaid or nursery-governess. Mary had once told her that shewas fit for such a place, and there was nothing else she could think of.A woman in the office took down her name and address, and promised tosend for her if she had any applications. She did not know of anyone inneed of a nursemaid or nursery-governess. "But you can call again to-morrow and inquire," she added.

On the following day she was advised to wait in the office so as to be onthe spot should anyone call to engage a girl. After waiting for somehours the woman began to question her, and finding that she had noknowledge of children, and had never been in service and could give noreferences, told her brusquely that she was giving a great deal ofunnecessary trouble, and that she need not come to the office again, asin the circumstances no lady would think of taking her.

Fan returned to her lodgings very much cast down, and there being no oneelse to seek counsel from, told her troubles to her landlady. But thepoor woman had nothing very hopeful to say, and could only tell Fan ofanother registry-office in Notting Hill High Street, and advise her toapply there.

This was a larger place, and after her name, address, and otherparticulars had been taken down in a book, she ventured to ask whetherher not having been in a place before, and being without a reference,would make it very difficult for her to get a situation; the woman of theoffice merely said, "One never knows."

This was not very encouraging, but she was told that she could come everyday and sit as long as she liked in the waiting-room. There were alwaysseveral girls and women there--a row of them sitting chatting together onchairs ranged against the wall--house, parlour, and kitchen-maids out ofplaces; and a few others of a better description, modest-looking, well-dressed young women, who came and stood about for a few minutes and thenwent away again. Of the girls of this kind Fan alone remained patientlyat her post, taking no interest in the conversation of the others,anxious only to avoid their bold inquisitive looks and to keep herselfapart from them. Yet their conversation, to anyone wishing to knowsomething of the lights and shadows of downstair life, was instructiveand interesting enough.

"Only seven days in your last place!"

"Oh, I say!"

"But what did you leave for?"

"Because she was a beast--my missus was; and what I told her was that itwas seven days too much."

"You never did!"

"Oh, I say!"

"And what did she say?"

"Well, it was like this. I was a-doing of my hair in the kitchen with thecurling-iron, when down comes Miss Julia. 'Oh, you are frizzing yourhair!' she says. 'Yes, miss,' I says, 'have you any objection?' I says.'Ma won't let you have a fringe,' she says. When I loses my temper, and Isays, 'Well, Miss Himperence, you can go and tell your ma that she canfind a servant as can do without a fringe.'"

"Oh, I say!" etc., etc., etc.

They also made critical remarks on Fan's appearance, wondering what a"young lady" wanted among servants. She felt no pride at being taken fora lady; she had no feeling and no thought that gave her any pleasure, butonly a dull aching at the heart, only the wish in her mind to findsomething to do and save herself from utter destitution.

For three days she continued to attend at the office, and beyond a short"Good morning" from the woman that kept it each day, not a word wasspoken to her. The third day was Saturday, when the office would closeearly; and after twelve o'clock, seeing that the others were all going,she too left, to spend the time as best she could until the followingMonday. The day was windless and bright, and full of the promise ofspring. Not feeling hungry she did not return to her lodgings, but wentfor a short walk in Kensington Gardens. Leaving the Broad Walk, she wentinto that secluded spot near the old farm-like buildings of KensingtonPalace and sat down on one of the seats among the yews and fir trees. Thenew gate facing Bayswater Hill has changed that spot now, making it morepublic, but it was very quiet on that day as she sat there by herself. Onthat beautiful spring morning her heart seemed strangely heavy, and herlife more lonely and desolate than ever. The memory of her loss came overher like a bitter flood, and covering her face with her hands she gavefree vent to her grief. There was no person near, no one to be attractedby her sobs. But one person was passing at some distance, and glancing inher direction through the trees, saw her, and stopped in her walk. It wasMiss Starbrow, and in the figure of the weeping girl she had recognisedFan. Her face darkened, and she walked on, but presently she stoppedagain, and stood irresolute, swinging the end of her sunshade over theyoung grass. At length she turned and walked slowly towards the girl, butFan was sobbing with covered face, and did not hear her steps andrustling dress. For some moments Miss Starbrow continued watching her, ascornful smile on her lips and a strange look in her eyes as of aslightly cruel feeling struggling against compassion. At length shespoke, startling Fan with her voice sounding so close to her.

"Crying? Well, I am glad that your sin has found you out! Glad you havemet with some thief cleverer than yourself, who has stolen your booty, Isuppose, and left you penniless--a beggar as I found you! I admire yourcourage in coming here, but you needn't be afraid; I'll have mercy onyou. You have punished yourself more than I could punish you; and someday I shall perhaps see you again in rags, starving in the streets, andshall fling a penny to you."

Fan had started at first with an instinctive fear--a vague apprehensionthat she would be seized and dragged away to be shut up and tortured asMiss Starbrow had desired. But suddenly this feeling gave place toanother, to a burning resentment experienced for the first time againstthis woman who had made her suffer so cruelly, and now came to taunt herand mock at her misery. It suffocated and made her dumb for a time. Thenshe burst out: "You wicked bad woman! You beast--you beast, how I hateyou! Oh, I wish God would strike you dead!"

"How dare you say such things to me, you ungrateful, shameless littlethief!"

Miss Starbrow uttered a little scornful laugh. "You would have somereason to hate me if I were to shut you up for six months with hardlabour," she answered, turning aside as if about to walk away.

To shut her up for six months! Yes, that was what she had tried to dowith the assistance of a strong man and woman. And what other torturesand sufferings had she intended to inflict on her victim! It was too muchto be reminded of this. It turned her blood into liquid fire, andmaddened her brain; and struggling to find words to speak the rage thatovermastered her, suddenly, as if by a miracle, every evil term ofreproach, every profane and blasphemous expression of drunken brutishanger she had heard and shuddered at in the old days in Moon Street,flashed back into her mind, and she poured them out in a furious torrent,hurled them at her torturer; and then, exhausted, sunk back into herseat, and covering her face again, sobbed convulsively.

Miss Starbrow's face turned crimson with shame, and she moved two orthree steps away; then she turned, and said in cold incisive tones:

"I see, Fan, that you have not forgotten all the nice things you learntbefore I took you out of the slums to shelter and feed and clothe you.This will be a lesson to me: I had not thought so meanly of the sufferingpoor as you make me think. They say that even dogs are grateful to thosethat feed them. And I did more than feed you, Fan. That's the last wordyou will ever hear from me."

She was moving away, but Fan, stung by a reproach so cruelly unjust,started to her feet with a cry of passion.

"Yes, I know you gave me these things--oh, I wish I could tear off thisdress you gave me! And this is the money you gave me--take it! I hateit!" And drawing her purse from her pocket, she flung it down at MissStarbrow's feet. Then, searching for something else to fling back to thedonor, she drew out that crumpled pink paper which had been all the timein her pocket. "And take this too--the wicked telegram you sent me. It isyours, like the money--take it, you bad, hateful woman!"

Miss Starbrow still remained standing near, watching her, and in spite ofher own great anger, she could not help feeling very much astonished atsuch an outburst of fury from a girl who had always seemed to her somild-spirited. She touched the crumpled piece of paper with her foot,then glanced back at the girl seated again with bowed head and coveredface. What had she meant by a telegram? Curiosity overcame the impulse towalk away, and stooping, she picked up the paper and smoothed it out andread, "From Miss Starbrow, Twickenham. To Miss Affleck, Dawson Place."

She had not been to Twickenham, and had sent no telegram to Fan. Then sheread the message and turned the paper over, and read it again and again,glancing at intervals at the girl. Then she went up to her and put herhand on her shoulder. Fan started and shook the hand off, and raised hereyes wet with tears and red with weeping, but still full of anger.

Miss Starbrow caught her by the arm. "Tell me what this means--thistelegram; when did you get it, and who gave it to you?" she said in sucha tone that the girl was compelled to obey.

"You know when you sent it," said Fan.

"I never sent it! Oh, my God, can't you understand what I say? Answer--answer my question!"

"Rosie gave it to me."

"And you went to Twickenham?"

"Yes."

"And what happened?"

"And the woman you sent to meet me--"

"Hush! don't say that. Are you daft? Don't I tell you I never sent it.Tell me, tell me, or you'll drive me mad!"

Fan looked at her in astonishment. Could it be that it had never enteredinto Mary's heart to do this cruel thing? That raging tempest in herheart was fast subsiding. She began to collect her faculties.

"The woman met me," she continued, "and took me a long way from thestation to a little house. She tried to take me upstairs. She said youwere waiting for me, but I looked up and saw Captain Horton peeping overthe banisters--"

Miss Starbrow clenched her hands and uttered a little cry. Her face hadbecome white, and she turned away from the girl. Presently she sat down,and said in a strangely altered voice, "Tell me, Fan, did you take somejewels from my dressing-table--a brooch and three rings, and some otherthings?"

"I took nothing except what you--what the telegram said, and Rosie putthe things in a bag and got the cab for me."

For a minute or two Miss Starbrow sat in silence, and then got up andsaid:

"Come, Fan."

"Where?"

"Home with me to Dawson Place." Then she added, "Must I tell you againthat I have done nothing to harm you? Do you not understand that it wasall a wicked horrible plot to get you away and destroy you, that thetelegram was a forgery, that the jewels were taken to make it appear thatyou had stolen them and run away during my absence from the house?"

Fan rose and followed her, and when they got to the Bayswater Road MissStarbrow called a cab.

"Where is your bag--where did you sleep last night?" she asked; and whenFan had told her she said, "Tell the man to drive us there," and got in.

In a few minutes they arrived at her lodging, and Fan got out and went into get her bag. She did not owe anything for rent, having paid inadvance, but she gave the woman a shilling.

"I knew I was right," said the woman, who was now all smiles. "Bless you,miss, you ain't fit to make your own living like one of us. Well, I'mreal pleased your friends has found you."

Fan got into the cab again, and they proceeded in silence to DawsonPlace. A small boy in buttons, who had only been engaged a day or twobefore, opened the door to them. They went up to the bedroom on the firstfloor.

"Sit down, Fan, and rest yourself," said Miss Starbrow, closing andlocking the door; then after moving about the room in an aimless way fora little while, she came and sat down near the girl. "Before you tell methis dreadful story, Fan," she said, "I wish to ask you one thing more.One day last week when it was raining you came home from Kensington witha young man. Who was he--a friend of yours?"

"A friend of mine! oh no. I was hurrying back in the rain when he came upto me and held his umbrella over my head, and walked to the door with me.It was kind of him, I thought, because he was a stranger, and I had neverseen him before."

"It was a small thing, but you usually tell me everything, and you didnot tell me this?"

"No, I was waiting to tell you that--and something else, and didn't tellyou because you seemed angry with me, and I was afraid to speak to you."

"What was the something else you were going to tell me?"

Fan related the scene she had witnessed in the drawing-room. It hadseemed a great thing then, and had disturbed her very much, but now,after all she had recently gone through, it seemed a very trivial matter.

To the other it did not appear so small a matter, to judge from her blacklooks. She got up and moved about the room again, and then once more satdown beside the girl.

"Now tell me your own story--everything from the moment you got thetelegram up to our meeting in the Gardens."

With half-averted face she listened, while the girl again began theinterrupted narration, and went on telling everything to the finish,wondering at times why Mary sat so silent with face averted, as if afraidto meet her eyes. But when she finished Mary turned and took her hand.

"Poor Fan," she said, "you have gone through a dreadful experience, andscarcely seem to understand even now what danger you were in. But therewill be time enough to talk of all this--to congratulate you on such afortunate escape; just now I have got to deal with that infamous wretchof a girl who still poisons the house with her presence."

She rose and rung the bell sharply, and when the boy in buttons answeredit, she ordered him to send Rosie to her.

"She's gone," said he.

"Gone! what do you mean--when did she go?"

"Just now, ma'am. She came up to speak to you when you came in, and thenshe got her box down and went away in a cab."

Miss Starbrow then sent for the cook. "What does this mean about Rosie'sgoing?" she demanded of that person. "How came you to let her go withoutinforming me?"

"She came down and said she had had some words with you, and was going toleave because Miss Fan had been took back."

"And the wretch has then got away with my jewellery! What else did shesay?"

"Nothing very good, ma'am. I'd rather not tell you."

"Tell me at once when I order you."

"I asked if she was going without her wages and a character, and she saidas you had paid her her wages, \and she didn't want a character, becauseshe didn't consider the house was respectable."

Miss Starbrow sent her away and closed the door; presently she sat downat some distance from Fan, but spoke no word. Fan was in a low easy-chairnear the window, through which the sun was shining very brightly. Shelooked pale and languid, resting her cheek on her palm and never moving;only at intervals, when Miss Starbrow, with an exclamation of rage, wouldrise and take a few steps about the room and then drop into her seatagain, the girl would raise her eyes and glance at her. All the keensuffering, the strife, the bitterness of heart and anger were over, andthe reaction had come. It had all been a mistake; Mary had never dreamtof doing her harm: the whole trouble had been brought about by CaptainHorton and Rosie; but she remembered them with a strange indifference;the fire of anger had burnt itself out in her heart and could not berekindled.

With the other it was different. It had been a great shock to her todiscover that the girl she had befriended, and loved as she had neverloved anyone of her own sex before, was so false, so unutterably base.For some little time she refused to believe it, and a horrible suspicionof foul play had crossed her mind. But the proofs stared her in the face,and she remembered that Fan had kept that acquaintance she had formedwith someone out of doors a secret. On returning to the house in theevening, she was told that shortly after she had gone out for the day aletter was brought addressed to Fan, and, when questioned, she hadrefused to tell Rosie who it was from. At one o'clock Rosie had gone upwith her dinner, and, missing her, had searched for her in all the rooms,and was then amazed to find that most of the girl's clothes had alsodisappeared. But she did not know that anything else had been taken. MissStarbrow missed some jewels she had put on her dressing-table, and on afurther search it was discovered that other valuables, and one of herbest travelling bags, were also gone. The astonishment and indignationdisplayed by the maid, who exclaimed that she had always considered Fan asly little hypocrite, helped perhaps to convince her mistress that thegirl had taken advantage of her absence to make her escape from thehouse. Miss Starbrow remembered how confused and guilty she had lookedfor two or three days before her flight, and came to the conclusion thatthe young friend out of doors, not being able to see Fan, had kept awatch on the house, and had cunningly arranged it all, and finally sentor left the letter instructing her where to meet him, also probablyadvising her what to take.

But Miss Starbrow had not been entirely bound up in the girl: she hadother affections and interests in life, and great as the shock had beenand the succeeding anger, she had recovered her self-possession, and hadset herself to banish Fan from her remembrance. She was ashamed to lether servants and friends see how deeply she had been wounded by thelittle starving wretch she had compassionately rescued from the streets.Outwardly she did not appear much affected; and when Rosie, with well-feigned surprise, asked if the police were not to be employed to tracethe stolen articles and arrest the thief, she only laughed carelessly andreplied: "No; she has punished herself enough already, and the trinketshave no doubt been sold before now, and could not be traced."

Rosie hurried away to hide the relief she felt, for she had beentrembling to think what might happen if some cunning detective were to beemployed to make investigations in the house.

Now, however, when Mary began to recover from the amazement caused byFan's narrative, a dull rage took such complete possession of her that itleft no room for any other feeling. The girl sitting there with bent headseemed no more to her than some stranger who had just come in, and aboutwhom she knew and cared nothing. All that Fan had suffered was forgotten:she only thought of herself, of the outrage on her feelings, of the viletreachery of the man who had pretended to love her, whom she had lovedand had treated so kindly, helping him with money and in other ways, andforgiving him again and again when he had offended her. She could notrest or sit still when she thought of it, and she thought of itcontinually and of nothing else. She rose and paced the room, pausing atevery step, and turning herself from side to side, like some savageanimal, strong and lithe and full of deadly rage, but unable to spring,trapped and shut within iron bars. Her face had changed to a livid white,and looked hard and pitiless, and her eyes had a fixed stony stare likethose of a serpent. And at intervals, as she moved about the room, sheclenched her hands with such energy that the nails wounded her palms. Andfrom time to time her rage would rise to a kind of frenzy, and findexpression in a voice strangely harsh and unnatural, deeper than a man's,and then suddenly rising to a shrill piercing key that startled Fan andmade her tremble. Poor Fan! that little burst of transitory anger she hadexperienced in the Gardens seemed now only a pitifully weak exhibitioncompared with the black tempest raging in this strong, undisciplinedwoman's soul.

"And I have loved him--loved that hell-hound! God! shall I ever cease todespise and loathe myself for sinking into such a depth of infamy! Never--never--until his viper head has been crushed under my heel! To strike!to crush! to torture! How?--have I no mind to think? Nothing can I do--nothing--nothing! Are there no means? Ah, how sweet to scorch the skinand make the handsome face loathsome to look at! To burn the eyes up intheir sockets--to shut up the soul for ever in thick blackness!... Oh, isthere no wise theologian who can prove to me that there is a hell, thathe will be chained there and tortured everlastingly! That would satisfyme--to remember it would be sweeter than Heaven."

Suddenly she turned in a kind of fury on Fan, who had risen tremblingfrom her seat. "Sit down!" she said. "Hide your miserable white face frommy sight! You could have warned me in time, you could have saved me fromthis, and you failed to do it! Oh, I could strike you dead with my handfor your imbecile cowardice!... And he will escape me! To blast his name,to hold him up to public scorn and hatred, years of imprisonment in afelon's cell--all, all the suffering we can inflict on such a fiendishwretch seems weak and childish, and could give no comfort to my soul. Oh,it drives me mad to think of it--I shall go mad--I shall go mad!" Andshrieking, and with eyes that seemed starting from their sockets, shebegan madly tearing her hair and clothes.

Fan had risen again, white and trembling at that awful sight; and unableto endure it longer, she sprang to the door, and crying out with terror,flew down to the kitchen. The cook returned with her, and on entering theroom they discovered their mistress in a mad fit of hysterics, shriekingwith laughter, and tearing her clothes off. The woman was strong, andseeing that prompt action was needed, seized her mistress in her arms andthrew her on to the couch, and held her there in spite of her franticstruggles. Assisted by Fan, she then emptied the contents of the toiletjug over her face and naked bosom, half drowning her; and after a whileMiss Starbrow ceased her struggles, and sank back gasping and halffainting on the cushion, her eyes closed and her face ghostly white.

"You see," said the cook to Fan, "she never had one before, and she's astrong one, and it's always worse for that sort when it do come. Lor',what a temper she must have been in to take on so!"

Between them they succeeded in undressing and placing her on her bed,where she lay for an hour in a half-conscious state; but later in the dayshe began to recover, and moved to the couch near the fire, while Fan satbeside her on the carpet, watching the face that looked so strange in itswhiteness and languor, and keeping the firelight from the half-closedeyes.

"Oh, Fan, how weak I feel now--so weak!" she murmured. "And a littlewhile ago I felt so strong! If he had been present I could have torn theflesh from his bones. No tiger in the jungle maddened by the hunters hassuch strength as I felt in me then. And now it has all gone, and he hasescaped from me. Let him go. All the kindly feeling I had for him--allthe hopes for his future welfare, all my secret plans to aid him--theyare dead. But it was all so sudden. Was it to-day, Fan, that I saw yousitting in Kensington Gardens, crying by yourself, or a whole year ago?Poor Fan! poor Fan!"

"For what I said to-day in the Gardens. Oh, why, why did I say suchdreadful things! Oh, I am so--so sorry--I am so sorry!"

"I remember now, but I had forgotten all about it. That was nothing, Fan--less than nothing. It was not you that spoke, but the demon of angerthat had possession of you. I forgive you freely for that, poor child,and shall never think of it again. But I shall never be able to feeltowards you as I did before. Never, Fan."

"Mary, Mary, what have I done!"

"Nothing, child. It is not anything you have done, or that you have leftundone. But I took you into my house and into my heart, and only askedyou to love and trust me, and you forgot it all in a moment, and wereready to believe the worst of me. A stranger told you that I had secretlyplanned your destruction, and you at once believed it. How could you findit in your heart to believe such a thing of me--a thing so horrible, soimpossible?"

Fan, with her face hidden, continued crying.

"But don't cry, Fan. You shall not suffer. If you could lose all faith inme, and think me such a demon of wickedness, you are not to blame. Youare not what I imagined, but only what nature made you. Where I thoughtyou strong you are weak, and it was my mistake."

Suddenly Fan raised her eyes, wet with tears, and looked fixedly at theother's face; nor did she drop them when Mary's eyes, opening wide andexpressing a little surprise at the girl's courage, and a littleresentment, returned the look.

"Mary," she said, speaking in a voice which had recovered its firmness,"I loved you so much, and I had never done anything wrong, and--and yousaid you would always love and trust me because you knew that I wasgood."

"Well, Fan?"

"And you believed what Rosie said about me, and that I was a thief, andhad taken your jewels and ran away."

Mary cast down her eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitched as if witha slight smile.

"That is true," she said slowly. "You are right, Fan; you are not so pooras I thought, but can defend yourself with your tongue or your teeth, asoccasion requires. Perhaps my sin balances yours after all, and leaves usquits. Perhaps when I get over this trouble I shall love you as much asever--perhaps more."

"And you are not angry with me now, Mary?"

"No, Fan, I was not angry with you: kiss me if you like. Only I feelvery, very tired--tired and sick of my life, and wish I could lie downand sleep and forget everything."

CHAPTER XII

On the very next day Miss Starbrow was herself again apparently, and theold life was resumed just where it had been broken off. But althoughoutwardly things went on in the old way, and her mistress was not unkind,and she had her daily walk, her reading, sewing, and embroidery to fillher time, the girl soon perceived that something very precious to her hadbeen lost in the storm, and she looked and waited in vain for itsrecovery. In spite of those reassuring well-remembered words Mary hadspoken to her, the old tender affection and confidence, which had madetheir former relations seem so sweet, now seemed lost. Mary was notunkind, but that was all. She did not wish Fan to read to her, or giveher any assistance in dressing, or to remain long in her room, butpreferred to be left alone. When she spoke, her words and tone were notungentle, but she no longer wished to talk, and after a few minutes shewould send her away; and then Fan, sad at heart, would go to her ownroom--that large back room where her bed had been allowed to remain, andwhere she worked silent and solitary, sitting before her own fire.

One day, just as she came in from her morning walk, a letter was left bythe postman, and Fan took it up to her mistress, glad always of an excuseto go to her--for now some excuse seemed necessary.

Miss Starbrow, sitting moodily before her fire in her bedroom, took it;but the moment she looked at the writing she started as if a snake hadbitten her, and flung the letter into the fire. Then, while watching itblaze up, she suddenly exclaimed:

"I was a fool to burn it before first seeing what was in it!"

Before she finished speaking Fan darted her hand into the flame, andtossing the burning letter on the rug, stamped out the fire with herfoot. The envelope and the outer leaf of the letter were black andcharred, but the inner leaf, which was the part written on, had notsuffered.

"Thanks, Fan; that was clever," said Miss Starbrow, taking it; and thenproceeded to read it, holding it far from her face as if her eyesight hadsuddenly fallen into decay.

Dear Pollie [ran the letter], When I saw that girl back in your house I knew that it would be all over between us. It is a terrible thing for me to lose you in that way, but there is no help for it now; I know that you will not forgive me. But I don't wish you to think of me worse than I deserve. You know as well as I do that since you took Fan into the house you have changed towards me, and that without quite throwing me over you made it as uncomfortable for me as you could. As things did not improve, I became convinced that as long as you had her by you it would continue the same, so I resolved to get her out of the way. I partially succeeded, and she would have been kept safely shut up for a few days, and then sent to a distant part of the country, to be properly taken care of. That is the whole of my offence, and I am very sorry that my plan failed. Nothing more than that was intended; and if you have imagined anything more you have done me an injustice. I am bad enough, I suppose, but not so bad as that; and I hate and always have hated that girl, who has been my greatest enemy, though perhaps unintentionally. That is all I have to say, except that I shall never forget how different it once was--how kind you could be, and how happy you often made me before that miserable creature came between us.

Good-bye for ever,

JACK.

Miss Starbrow laughed bitterly. "There, Fan, read it," she said. "It isall about you, and you deserve a reward for burning your fingers. Cowardand villain! why has he added this infamous lie to his other crimes? Ithas only made me hate and despise him more than ever. If he had had thecourage to confess everything, and even to boast of it, I should not havethought so meanly of him."

The wound was bleeding afresh. Her face had grown pale, and under herblack scowling brows her eyes shone as if with the reflected firelight.But it was only the old implacable anger flashing out again.

Fan, after reading the letter for herself, and dropping it with tremblingfingers on to the fire, turned to her mistress. Her face had also grownvery pale, and her eyes expressed a new and great trouble.

"Why do you look at me like that?" exclaimed Miss Starbrow, seizing herby the arm. "Speak!"

Fan sank down on to her knees, and began stammeringly, "Oh, I can't bearto think--to think--"

"To think what?--Speak, I tell you!"

"_Did_ I come between you?--oh, Mary, are you sorry--"

"Hush!" and Miss Starbrow pushed her angrily from her. "Sorry! Never dareto say such a thing again! Oh, I don't know which is most hateful to me,his villainy or your whining imbecility. Leave me--go to your room, andnever come to me unless I call you."

Fan went away, sad at heart, and cried by herself, fearing now that thesweet lost love would never again return to brighten her life. But afterthis passionate outburst Miss Starbrow was not less kind and gentle thanbefore. Once at least every day she would call Fan to her room and speaka few words to her, and then send her away. The few words would even becheerfully spoken, but with a fictitious kind of cheerfulness; under itall there was ever a troubled melancholy look; the clouds which hadreturned after the rain had not yet passed away. To Fan they were verymuch, those few daily words which served to keep her hope alive, whileher heart hungered for the love that was more than food to her.

Even in her sleep this unsatisfied instinct of her nature and perpetualcraving made her dreams sad. But not always, for on more than oneoccasion she had a very strange sweet dream of Mary pressing her lips andwhispering some tender assurance to her; and this dream was so vivid, solike reality, that when she woke she seemed to feel still on face andhands the sensation of loving lips and other clasping hands, so that sheput out her hands to return the embrace. And one night from that dreamshe woke very suddenly, and saw a light in the room--the light of a smallshaded lamp moving away towards the door, and Mary, in a white wrapper,with her dark hair hanging unbound on her back, was carrying it.

"Mary, Mary!" cried the girl, starting up in bed, and holding out herarms.

The other turned, and for a little while stood looking at her; no ghostnor somnambulist was she in appearance, with those bright wakeful eyes,the curious smile that played about her lips, and the rich colour,perhaps from confusion or shame at being detected, surging back into herlately pale face. She did not refuse the girl's appeal, or try any longerto conceal her feelings. Setting the lamp down she came to the bedside,and taking Fan in her arms, held her in a long close embrace. When shehad finished caressing the girl she remained standing for some timesilent beside the bed, her eyes cast down as if in thought, and anexpression half melancholy but strangely tender and beautiful on herface.

Presently she bent down over the girl again and spoke.

"Don't fret, dearest, if I seem bad-tempered and strange. I love you justthe same; I have come here more than once to kiss you when you wereasleep. Do you remember how angry you made me when you asked if you hadcome between that man and me, and if I were sorry? You _did_ comebetween us, Fan, in a way that his wholly corrupt soul would neverunderstand. But you could not have done me a greater service than that--no, not if you had spilt your heart's blood for me. You have repaid mefor all that I have done, or ever can do for you, and have made me yourdebtor besides for the rest of my life."

That midnight interview with her mistress had thereafter a very brightand beautiful place in Fan's memory, and still thinking of it she wouldsometimes lie awake for hours, wishing and hoping that Mary would come toher again in one of her tender moods. But it did not happen again; forMary was not one to recover quickly from such a wound as she hadsuffered, and she still brooded, wrapped up in her own thoughts, dreamingperhaps of revenge. And in the meantime bitter blustering March wore onto its end, the sun daily gaining power; and then, all at once, it wasApril, with sunshine and showers; and some heavenly angel passed by andtouched the brown old desolate elms in Kensington Gardens with tenderestgreen; and as by a miracle the baskets of the flower-girls in WestbourneGrove were filled to overflowing with spring flowers--pale primroses thatdie unmarried; and daffodils that come before the swallow dares, shininglike gold; and violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, orCytherea's breath.

CHAPTER XIII

One afternoon, returning from Westbourne Grove, where she had been out tobuy flowers for the table, on coming into the hall, Fan was surprised tohear Miss Starbrow in the dining-room talking to a stranger, with acheerful ring in her voice, which had not been heard for many weeks. Shewas about to run upstairs to her room, when her mistress called out, "Isthat you, Fan? Come in here; I want you."

Miss Starbrow and her visitor were sitting near the window. How changedshe looked, with her cheeks so full of rich red colour, and her dark eyessparkling with happy, almost joyous excitement! But she did not speakwhen Fan, blushing a little with shyness, advanced into the room andstood before them, her eyes cast down in a pretty confusion. Smiling, shewatched the girl's face, then the face of her guest, her eyes bright andmirthful glancing from one to the other. Fan, looking up, saw before hera tall broad-shouldered young man with good features, hair almost black;no beard, but whiskers and moustache, very dark brown; and, in strangecontrast, grey-blue eyes. Over these eyes, too light in colour to matchthe hair, the eyelids drooped a little, giving to them that partially-closed sleepy appearance which is often deceptive. Just now they werestudying the girl standing before him with very keen interest. A slendergirl, not quite sixteen years old, in a loose and broad-sleeved olive-green dress, and yellow scarf at the neck; brown straw hat trimmed withspring flowers; flowers also in her hand, yellow and white, and ferns, ina great loose bunch; and her golden hair hanging in a braid on her back.But the face must be imagined, white and delicate and indescribablylovely in its tender natural pallor.

"Fan," said Miss Starbrow at last, and speaking with a merry smile, "thisis my brother Tom, from Manchester, you have so often heard me speak of.Tom, this is Fan."

"Well," exclaimed Miss Starbrow, after he had shaken hands with Fan andsat down again, "what do you think of my little girl? You have heard allabout her, and now you have seen her, and I am waiting to hear youropinion."

"Do you remember the old days at home, Mary, when we were all together?How you do remind me of them now!"

"Oh, bother the old days! You know how I hated them, and I--why don't youanswer my question, Tom?"

"That's just it," he returned. "It was always the same: you always wantedan answer before the question was out of your mouth. Now, it was quitedifferent with the rest of us."

"Yes, you were a slow lot. Do you remember Jacob?--it always took himfifteen minutes to say yes or no. There's an animal--I forget what it'scalled--rhinoceros or something--at the Zoo that always reminds me ofhim; he was so fearfully ponderous."

"Yes, that's all very well, Mary, but I fancy he's more than doubled thefortune the gov'nor left him; so he has been ponderous to some purpose."

"Has he? how? But what do I care! Tom, you'll drive me crazy--why can'tyou answer a simple question instead of going off into fifty otherthings?"

"Well, Mary, if you'll kindly explain which of all the questions you haveasked me during the last minute or two, I'll try my best."

She frowned, made an impatient gesture, then laughed.

"Go upstairs and take off your things, Fan," she said. "Well?" shecontinued, turning to her brother again, and finding his eyes fixed onher face. "Do you tell me, Mary, that this white girl was born and bredin a London slum, that her drunken mother was killed in a street fight,and that she had no other life but that until you picked her up?"

He rose, and coming to her side put his arm about her and kissed hercheek very heartily.

"You were always a good old girl, Mary," he said, "and you are one still,in spite of your vagaries."

"Thank you for your very equivocal compliments," she returned,administering a slight box on his ear. "And now tell me what you think ofFan?"

"I'll tell you presently, if you have not guessed already; but I'd liketo know first what you are going to do with her."

"I don't know; I can't bother about it just now. There's plenty of timeto think of that. Perhaps I'll make a lady's-maid of her, though itdoesn't seem quite the right thing to do."

"No, it doesn't. Don't go and spoil what you have done by any such follyas that."

"Do you want me to make a lady of her--or what?"

"A lady? Well that is a difficult question to answer; but I have heardthat sometimes ladies, like poets, are born, not made. At all events, itwould not be right, I fancy, to keep the girl here. It might give rise todisagreeable complications, as you always have a parcel of fellowshanging about you."

Her face darkened with a frown.

"Now, Mary, don't get into a tantrum; it is best for us to be frank. AndI say frankly that you never did a better thing in your life than whenyou took this girl into your house, if my judgment is worth anything. Myadvice is, send her away for a time--for a year or two, say. She isyoung, and would be better for a little more teaching. There are poorgentlefolks all over the country who are only too glad to take a girlwhen they can get one, and give her a pleasant home and instruction for amoderate sum. Find out some such place, and give her a year of it atleast; and then if you should have her back she would be more of acompanion for you, and, if not, she would be better able to earn her ownliving. Take my advice, Mary, and finish a good work properly."

"A good work! You have nearly spoilt the effect of everything you said bythat word. I never have done and never will do good works. It is not mynature, Tom. What I have done for Fan is purely from selfish motives. Thefact is I fell in love with the girl, and my reward is in being loved byher and seeing her happy. It would be ridiculous to call thatbenevolence."

He smiled and shook his head. "You can abuse yourself if you like, Mary;we came from Dissenters, and that's a fashion of theirs--"

"Cant and hypocrisy is a fashion of theirs, if you like," sheinterrupted. "You are not going the right way about it if you wish me topay any attention to your advice."

"Come, Mary, don't let us quarrel. I'll agree with you that we are all alot of selfish beggars; and I'll even confess that I have a selfishmotive in advising you to send the girl away to the country for a time."

"What is your motive?" she asked.

"Well, I hate going slap-dash into the middle of a thing without anypreface; I like to approach it in my own way."

"Yes, I know; _your_ way of approaching a subject is to walk in acircle round it. But please dash into the middle of it for once."

"Well, then, to tell you the plain truth, I am beginning to think thatmoney-getting is not the only thing in life--"

"What a discovery for a Manchester man to make! The millennium must havedawned at last on your smoky old town!"

He laughed at her words, but refused to go on with the subject.

"I was only teasing you a little," he said. "It gladdens me even to seeyou put yourself in a temper, Mary--it brings back old times when we werealways such good friends, and sometimes had such grand quarrels."

Mary also laughed, and rang the bell for afternoon tea. She was curiousto hear about the "selfish motive," but remembered the family failing,and forbore to press him.

According to his own accounts, Mr. Tom Starbrow was up in town onbusiness; apparently the business was not of a very pressing nature, asmost of his time during the next few days was spent at Dawson Place,where he and his sister had endless conversations about old times. Thenhe would go with Fan to explore Whiteley's, which seemed to require agreat deal of exploring; and from these delightful rambles they wouldreturn laden with treasures--choice bon-bons, exotic flowers and hot-house grapes at five or six shillings a pound; quaint Japanese knick-knacks; books and pictures, and photographs of celebrated men--greatbeetle-browed philosophers, and men of blood and thunder; also of womenstill more celebrated, on and off the stage. Mr. Starbrow would havenothing sent; the whole fun of the thing, he assured Fan, was in carryingall their purchases home themselves; and so, laden with innumerable smallparcels, they would return chatting and laughing like the oldest and bestof friends, happy and light-hearted as children.

At last one day Mr. Starbrow went back to the old subject. "Mary, mygirl," he said, "have you thought over the advice I gave you about thiswhite child of yours?"

"No, certainly not; we were speaking of it when you broke off in themiddle of a sentence, if you remember. You can finish the sentence now ifyou like, but don't be in a hurry."

"Well then, to come at once to the very pith of the whole matter, I thinkI've been sticking to the mill long enough--for the present. And it maycome to pass that some day I shall be married, and then----"

"Your second state will be worse than your first."

"That will be according to how it turns out. I was only going to say thata married man finds it more difficult to do some things."

"To flirt with pretty young girls, for instance?"

"No, no. But I haven't finished yet. I haven't even come to the matter atall."

"Oh, you haven't! How strange!"

He smiled and was silent.

"I hope, Tom, you'll marry a big strong woman."

"Why, Mary?"

"Because you want an occasional good shaking."

"You see, my difficulty is this," he began again, without noticing thelast speech. "When I tell you what I want, I'm afraid you'll only laughat me and refuse my request."

"It won't hurt you much, poor old Tom, if I do laugh."

"No, perhaps not--I never thought of that." Then he proceeded to explainthat he had made up his mind to spend two or three years in seeing theworld, or at all events that portion of it to be found outside ofEngland; and the first year he wished to spend on the Continent. Alone hefeared that he would have a miserable time of it; but if his sister wouldonly consent to accompany him, then he thought it would be mostenjoyable; for he would have her society, and her experience of travel,and knowledge of German and French, would also smooth the way. "Now,Mary," he concluded--it had taken him half an hour to say this--"don'tsay No just yet. I know I shall be an awful weight for you to drag about,I'll be so helpless at hotels and stations and such places. But therewill perhaps be one advantage to you. I know you spend rather freely, andyour income is not too large, and I dare say you have exceeded it alittle. Now, if you will give a year to me, and have your house shut upor let in the meantime, there would be a year's income saved to put youstraight again."

"That means, Tom, that you would pay all my expenses while we wereabroad?"

"Well, sis, I couldn't well take you away from your own life andpleasures and ask you to pay your own. That would be a strangely one-sided proposal to make."

"I must take time to think about it."

"That's a good girl. And, Mary, what would it cost to put this girl withsome family where she would have a pleasant home and be taught for ayear?"

"About sixty or seventy pounds, I suppose. Then there would be herclothing, and pocket-money, and incidental expenses--altogether a hundredpounds, I dare say."

"And you would let me pay this also?"

"No indeed, Tom. Three or four months would be quite time enough to putme straight; and if I consent to go, it must be understood that there areto be no presents, and nothing except travelling expenses."

"All right, Mary; you haven't consented yet definitely, but it is a greatrelief that you do not scout the idea, and tell me to go and buy a ticketat Ludgate Circus."

"Well, no, I couldn't well say that, considering that you are the onlyone of the family who has treated me rightly, and that I care anythingabout." She laughed a little, and presently continued: "I dare say theothers are all well enough in their way; they are all honest men, ofcourse, and someone says, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.' Formy part, I think it His poorest work. Fancy dull, slow old calculatingJacob being the noblest work of the Being that created--what shall Isay?--this violet, or--"

"Fan," suggested her brother.

"Yes, Fan if you like. By the way, Tom, before I forget to mention it, Ithink you are a little in love with Fan."

Tom, taken off his guard, blushed hotly, which would not have mattered ifhis sister's keen eyes had not been watching his face.

"Yes, I know she's but a lassie yet," replied his sister with a mockinglaugh.

It was too much for his Starbrow temper, and taking up his hat he roseand marched angrily out of the room--angry as much with himself as withhis sister. But in a moment she was after him, and before he could openthe hall door her arms were round his neck.

"Oh, Tom, you foolish fellow, can't you take a little joke good-humouredly?" she said. "I'm afraid our year on the Continent will be avery short one if you are going to be so touchy."

"Then you will consent?" he said, glad to change the subject and befriendly again.

And a day or two later she did finally consent to accompany him. Hisproposal had come at an opportune moment, when she was heartsore, andrestless, and anxious to escape from the painful memories andassociations of the past month.

One of her first steps was to advertise in the papers for a home withtuition for a girl under sixteen, in a small family residing in a ruraldistrict in the west or south-west of England. The answers were to beaddressed to her newspaper agent, who was instructed not to forward themto her in driblets, but deliver them all together.

Mr. Starbrow stayed another week in town, and during that time he wentsomewhere every day with his sister and Fan; they drove in the Park, wentto picture galleries, to morning concerts, and then, if not tired, to atheatre in the evening. It was consequently a very full week to Fan, whonow for the first time saw something of the hidden wonders and glories ofLondon. And she was happy; but this novel experience--the sight of allthat unimagined wealth of beauty--was even less to her than Mary'sperfect affection, which was now no longer capricious, bursting forth atrare intervals like sunshine out of a stormy sky. Then that week infairyland was over, and Tom Starbrow went back to Manchester to arrangehis affairs; but before going he presented Fan with a very beautifullady's watch and chain, the watch of chased gold with blue enamelledface.

"I do not wish you to forget me, Fan," he said, holding her hand in his,and looking into her young face smilingly, yet with a troubled expressionin his eyes, "and there is nothing like a watch to remind you of anabsent friend; sometimes it will even repeat his words if you listenattentively to its little ticking language. It is something like the sea-shell that whispers about the ocean waves when you hold it to your ear."

That pretty little speech only served to make the gift seem more preciousto Fan; for she was not critical, and it did not sound in the leaststudied to her. It was delivered, however, when Mary was out of the room;when she returned and saw the watch, after congratulating the girl shethrew a laughing and somewhat mocking glance at her brother; for whichTom was prepared, and so he met it bravely, and did not blush or lose histemper.

In due time the answers to the advertisement arrived--in a sack, for theynumbered about four hundred.

"Oh, how will you ever be able to read them all!" exclaimed Fan, staringin a kind of dismay at the pile, where Miss Starbrow had emptied them onthe carpet.

"I have no such mad intention," said the other with a laugh, and turningthem over with her pretty slippered foot. "As a rule people that answeradvertisements--especially women--are fools. If you advertise for a pieceof old point lace, about a thousand people who have not got such a thingwill write to say that they will sell you wax flowers, old books, ostrichfeathers, odd numbers of _Myra's Journal_, or any rubbish they mayhave by them; I dare say that most of the writers of these letters arejust as wide of the mark. Sit here at my feet, Fan; and you shall openthe letters for me and read the addresses. No, not that way with yourfingers. If you stop to tear them to pieces, like a hungry cat tearingits meat, it will take too long. Use the paper-knife, and open themneatly and quickly."

Fan began her task, and found scores of letters from the suburbs ofLondon and all parts of the kingdom, from Land's End to the north ofScotland; and in nine cases out of ten after reading the address hermistress would say, "Tear it twice across, and throw it into the basket,Fan."

It seemed a pity to Fan to tear them up unread; for some were so long andso beautifully written, with pretty little crests at the top of the page;but Mary knew her own mind, and would not relent so far as even to lookat one of these wasted specimens of calligraphic art. In less than anhour's time the whole heap had been disposed of, with the exception offifteen or twenty letters selected for consideration on account of theiraddresses. These Miss Starbrow carefully went over, and finally selectingone she read it aloud to Fan. It was from a Mrs. Churton, an elderlylady, residing with her husband, a retired barrister, and her daughter,in their own house at a small place called Eyethorne, in Wiltshire. Sheoffered to take the girl into her house, treat her as her own child, andgive her instruction, for seventy pounds a year. The tuition would beundertaken by the daughter, who was well qualified for such a task, andcould teach languages--Latin, German, and French were mentioned; alsomathematics, geology, history, music, drawing, and a great many otherbranches of knowledge, both useful and ornamental.

Fan listened to this part of the letter with a look of dismay on herface, which made Miss Starbrow laugh.

"Why, my child, what more can you want?" she said.

"Don't you think it a little too much, Mary?" she returned with somedistress, which made the other laugh again.

"Well, my poor girl, you needn't study Greek and archaeology andlogarithms unless you feel inclined. But if you ever take a fancy forsuch subjects it will always be a comfort to know that you may dive downas deeply as you like without knocking your head on the bottom. I meanthat you will never get to know too much for Miss Churton, who knows morethan all the professors put together."

"Do you think she will be nice?" said Fan, wandering from the subject.

"Nice! That depends on your own taste. I fancy I can draw a picture ofwhat she is like. A tall thin lady of an uncertain age. Thin acrosshere"--placing her hands on her own shoulders. "And very flat here,"--touching her own well-developed bust.

"But I should like to know about her face."

"Should you? I'm afraid that it is not a very bright smiling face, thatit is rather yellow in colour, that the hair is rather dead-looking, ofthe door-mat tint, and smoothed flat down. The eyes are dim, no doubt,from much reading, and the nose long, straddled with a pair ofspectacles, and red at the end from dyspepsia and defective circulation.But never mind, Fan, you needn't look so cast down about it. Miss Churtonwill be your teacher, and I wish you joy, but you will have plenty oftime for play, and other things to think of besides study. When yourlessons are over you can chase butterflies and gather flowers if youlike. Luckily Miss Churton has not included botany and entomology in thelong list of her acquirements."

Fan did not quite understand all this; her mistress was always mocking atsomething, she knew; she only asked if it was really in the country whereshe would live.

Miss Starbrow took up the letter and read the remaining portion, whichcontained a description of Wood End House--the Churtons' residence--andits surroundings. The house, the writer said, was small, but pretty andcomfortable; and there was a nice garden and a large orchard with fruitin abundance. There were also some fields and meadows, her own property,let to neighbouring farmers. East of the house, and within fifteenminutes walk, was the old picturesque village of Eyethorne, sheltered bya range of grassy hills; also within a few minutes' walk began theextensive Eyethorne woods, celebrated for their beauty.

Nothing could have been more charming than this, and the picture ofgarden and orchard, green meadows and hills and shady woods, almostreconciled Fan to the prospect of spending a whole year in the society ofan aged and probably ailing couple, and a lady of uncertain age, deeplylearned and of unprepossessing appearance--for she could not rid her mindof the imaginary portrait drawn by Mary.

For some mysterious reason, or for no reason, Miss Starbrow resolved toclose at once with the Churtons; and as if fearing that her mind mightalter, she immediately tore up the other letters, although in some ofthem greater advantages had been held out, lower terms, and thecompanionship of girls of the same age as Fan. And in a very few days,after a little further correspondence, everything was settled to theentire satisfaction of everyone concerned, and it was arranged that Fanshould go down to Eyethorne on the 10th of May, which was now very near.

"I shall have one good dress made for you," said Miss Starbrow, "and youcan take the material to make a second for yourself; you are growing justnow, Fan. A nice dress for Sundays; down in the country most people go tochurch. And, by the way, Fan, have you ever been inside a church in yourlife?"

She seemed not to know how to answer this question, but at length spoke,a little timidly. "Not since I have lived with you, Mary."

"Is that intended for a sarcasm, Fan? But never mind, I know what youmean. When you are at Eyethorne you must still bear that in mind, andeven if questioned about it, never speak of that old life in Moon Street.I suppose I must get you a prayer-book, and--show you how to use it. Butabout dress. Your body is very much more important than your soul, andhow to clothe it decently and prettily must be our first consideration.We must go to Whiteley's and select materials for half a dozen prettysummer dresses. Blue, I fancy, suits you best, but you can have othercolours as well."

"Oh, Mary," said the girl with strange eagerness, "will you let me chooseone myself? I have so long wished to wear white! May I have one whitedress?"

"White? You are so white yourself. Don't you think you look simple andinnocent enough as it is? But please yourself, Fan, you shall have asmany white dresses as you like."

So overjoyed was Fan at having this long-cherished wish at last gratifiedthat, for the first time she had ever ventured to do such a thing, shethrew her arms round Mary's neck and kissed her. Then starting back alittle frightened, she exclaimed, "Mary, was it wrong for me to kiss youwithout being told?"

"No, dear, kiss me as often as you like. We have had a rather eventfulyear together, have we not? Clouds and storms and some pleasant sunshine.For these few remaining days there must be no clouds, but only perfectlove and peace. The parting will come quickly enough, and who knows--whoknows what changes another year will bring?"

CHAPTER XIV

At the last moment, when all the preparations were complete, MissStarbrow determined to accompany Fan to her new home, and, after droppingher there, to pay a long-promised visit before leaving England to an oldfriend of her girlhood, who was now married and living at Salisbury.Eyethorne took her some distance out of her way; and at the small countrystation where they alighted, which was two and a half miles from thevillage, she found from the time-table that her interview with theChurtons would have to be a short one, as there was only one train whichwould take her to Salisbury so as to arrive there at a reasonably earlyhour in the evening. At the station they took a fly, and the drive toEyethorne brought before Fan's eyes a succession of charming scenes--green hills, broad meadows yellow with buttercups, deep shady lanes, andold farm-houses. The spring had been cold and backward; but since thebeginning of May there had been days of warm sunshine with occasionalgentle rains, and the trees, both shade and fruit, had all at once rushedinto leaf and perfect bloom. Such vivid and tender greens as the foliageshowed, such a wealth of blossom on every side, such sweet fragrancefilling the warm air, Fan had never imagined; and yet how her propheticheart had longed for the sweet country!

A sudden turn of the road brought them in full sight of the village,sheltered on the east side by low green hills; and beyond the village, atsome distance, a broad belt of wood, the hills on one hand and greenmeadowland on the other. Five minutes after leaving the village they drewup at the gate of Wood End House, which was at some distance back fromthe road almost hidden from sight by the hedge and trees, and wasapproached by a short avenue of elms. Arrived at the house, they werereceived by Mr. and Mrs. Churton, and ushered into a small drawing-roomon the ground floor; a room which, with its heavy-looking, old-fashionedfurniture, seemed gloomy to them on coming in from the bright sunshine.Mrs. Churton was rather large, approaching stoutness in her figure, grey-haired with colourless face, and a somewhat anxious expression; but sheseemed very gentle and motherly, and greeted Fan with a kindliness in hervoice and manner which served in a great measure to remove the girl'snervousness on coming for the first time as an equal among gentlefolks.

Mr. Churton had not, in a long married life, grown like his spouse in anyway, nor she like him. He was small, with a narrow forehead, irregularface and projecting under-lip, which made him ugly. His eyes were of thatcommon no-colour type, and might or might not have been pigmented, andclassifiable as brown or blue--Dr. Broca himself would not have been ableto decide. But the absence of any definite colour was of less accountthan the lack of any expression, good or bad. One wondered, on seeing hisface, how he could be a retired barrister, unless it meant merely that inthe days of his youth he had made some vague and feeble efforts atentering such a profession, ending in nothing. Possibly he was himselfconscious that his face lacked a quality found in others, and failed toinspire respect and confidence; for he had a trick of ostentatiouslyclearing his throat, and looking round and speaking in a deliberate andsomewhat consequential manner, as if by these little arts tocounterbalance the weakness in the expression. His whole get-up alsosuggested the same thought--could anyone believe the jewel to be missingfrom a casket so elaborately chased? His grey hair was brushed sprucelyup on each side of his head, the ends of the locks forming asupplementary pair of ears above the crown. He was scrupulously dressedin black cloth and spotless linen, with a very large standing-up collar.In manner he was gushingly amiable and polite towards Miss Starbrow, andas he stood bowing and smiling and twirling the cord of his gold-rimmedglasses about his finger, he talked freely to that lady of the lovelyweather, the beauty of the country, the pleasures of the spring season,and in fact of everything except the business which had brought herthere. Presently she cut short his flow of inconsequent talk by remarkingthat her time was short, and inquiring if Miss Churton were in.

Mrs. Churton quickly replied that she was expecting her every moment;that she had gone out for a short walk, and had not perhaps seen the flyarrive. No doubt, she added a little nervously, Miss Starbrow would liketo see and converse with Miss Affleck's future teacher and companion.

"Oh, no, not at all!" promptly replied the other, with the habitualcurling of the lip. "I came to-day by the merest chance, as everythinghad been arranged by correspondence, and I am quite satisfied that MissAffleck will be in good hands." At which Mr. Churton bowed, and turningbestowed a fatherly smile on Fan. "It is not at all necessary for me tosee Miss Churton," continued Miss Starbrow, "but there is one thing Iwish to speak to you about, which I omitted to mention in my letters toyou."

Mr. and Mrs. Churton were all attention, but before the other had begunto speak Miss Churton came in, her hat on, and with a sunshade in onehand and a book in the other.

Miss Churton advanced to the first lady, but did not give her hand as shehad meant to do; for the moment she appeared in the room and her name wasmentioned a cloud had come over the visitor's face, and she merely boweddistantly without stirring from her seat.

For the real Miss Churton offered a wonderful contrast to that portraitof her which the other had drawn from her imagination. She might almostbe called tall, her height being little less than that of the dark-browedlady who sat before her, regarding her with cold critical eyes; but infigure she was much slimmer, and her light-coloured dress, which wasunfashionable in make, was pretty and became her. She was, in fact, onlytwenty-two years old. There were no lines of deep thought on her purewhite forehead when she removed her hat; and no dimness from much readingof books in her clear hazel eyes, which seemed to Fan the most beautifuleyes she had ever seen, so much sweet sympathy did they show, and so muchconfidence did they inspire. In colour she was very rich, her skin beingof that tender brown one occasionally sees in the face of a young lady inthe country, which seems to tell of a pleasant leisurely life in woodsand fields; while her abundant hair was of a tawny brown tint with bronzereflections. She was very beautiful, and when, turning from MissStarbrow, she advanced to Fan and gave her hand, the girl almost trembledwith the new keen sensation of pleasure she experienced. Miss Churton wasso different from that unlovely mental picture of her! She imagined for amoment, poor girl, that Mary would show her feelings of relief andpleasure; but she quickly perceived that something had brought a suddencloud over Mary's face, and it troubled her, and she wondered what itmeant.

Before Miss Churton had finished welcoming Fan, Miss Starbrow, looking ather watch and directly addressing the elder lady, said in a cold voice:

"I think it would be as well if Miss Affleck could leave us for a fewminutes, and I will then finish what I had begun to say."

Miss Churton looked inquiringly at her, then turned again to Fan.

"Will you come with me to the garden?" she said.

Fan rose and followed her through a back door opening on to a grassylawn, beyond which were the garden and orchard. After crossing the lawnand going a little way among the shrubs and flowers they came in sight ofa large apple-tree white with blossoms.

"Oh, can we go as far as that tree?" asked the girl after a littledelighted exclamation at the sight. When they reached the tree she wentunder it and gazed up into the beautiful flowery cloud with wide-openeyes, and lips half-parted with a smile of ineffable pleasure.

Miss Churton stood by and silently watched her face for some moments.

"Do you think you will like your new home, Miss Affleck?" she asked.

"Oh, how lovely it all is--the flowers!" she exclaimed. "I didn't knowthat there was any place in the world so beautiful as this! I should liketo stay here for ever!"

"But have you never been in the country before?" said the other with somesurprise.

"Yes. Only once, for a few days, years ago. But it was not like this. Itwas very beautiful in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, but this--"

She could find no words to express her feeling; she could only standgazing up, and touching the white and pink clustering blossoms with herfinger-tips, as if they were living things to be gently caressed. "Oh, itis so sweet," she resumed. "I have always so wished to be in the country,but before Miss Starbrow took me to live with her, and before--they--mother died, we lived in a very poor street, and were always so poor and--" Then she reddened and cast down her eyes and was silent, for she hadsuddenly remembered that Miss Starbrow had warned her never to speak ofher past life.

Miss Churton smiled slightly, but with a strange tenderness in her eyesas she watched the girl's face.

"I hope we shall get on well together, and that you will like me alittle," she said.

"Oh, yes, I know I shall like you if--if you will not think me verystupid. I know so little, and you know so much. Must you always call meMiss Affleck?"

"Not if you would prefer me to call you Frances. I should like thatbetter."

"That would seem so strange, Miss Churton. I have always been calledFan."

Just then the others were seen coming out to the garden, and Miss Churtonand Fan went back to meet them. Mr. Churton, polite and bare-headed,hovered about his visitor, smiling, gesticulating, chattering, while sheanswered only in monosyllables, and was blacker-browed than ever. Mrs.Churton, silent and pale, walked at her side, turning from time to time atroubled look at the dark proud face, and wondering what its stormyexpression might mean.

"Fan," said Miss Starbrow, without even a glance at the lady at Fan'sside, "my time is nearly up, and I wish to have three or four minutesalone with you before saying good-bye."

The others at once withdrew, going back to the house, while Miss Starbrowsat down on a garden bench and drew the girl to her side. "Well, mychild, what do you think of your new teacher?" she began.

"I like her so much, Mary, I'm sure--I know she will be very kind to me;and is she not beautiful?"

"I am not going to talk about that, Fan. I haven't time. But I want tosay something very serious to you. You know, my girl, that when I tookyou out of such a sad, miserable life to make you happy, I said that itwas not from charity, and because I loved my fellow-creatures or the poorbetter than others; but solely because I wanted you to love me, and youraffection was all the payment I ever expected or expect. But now Iforesee that something will happen to make a change in you--"

"I can never change, or love you less than now, Mary!"

"So you imagine, but I can see further. Do you know, Fan, that you cannotgive your heart to two persons; that if you give your whole heart to thislady you think so beautiful and so kind, and who will be paid for herkindness, that her gain will be my loss?"

Fan, full of strange trouble, put her trembling hand on the other's hand."Tell me how it will be your loss, Mary," she said. "I don't think Iunderstand."

"I was everything to you before, Fan. I don't want a divided affection,and I shall not share your affection with this woman, however beautifuland kind she may be; or, rather, I shall not be satisfied with what isover after you have begun to worship her. Your love is a kind of worship,Fan, and you cannot possibly have that feeling for more than one person,although you will find it easy enough to transfer it from one to another.If you do not quite understand me yet, you must think it over and try tofind out what I mean. But I warn you, Fan, that if ever you transfer theaffection you have felt for me to this woman, or this girl, then youshall cease to be anything to me. You shall be no more to me than youwere before I first saw you and felt a strange wish to take you to myheart; when you were in rags and half-starved, and without one friend inthe world."

The tears started to the girl's eyes, and she threw her arms round theother's neck. "Oh, Mary, nothing, nothing will ever make me love youless! Will you not believe me, Mary?"

"Yes, dear Fan, don't cry. Good-bye, my darling. Write to me at leastonce every fortnight, and when you want money or anything let me know,and you shall have it. And when May comes round again let me see youunchanged in heart, but with an improved mind and a little colour in yourdear pale face."

After Miss Starbrow's departure Fan was shown to her room, where herluggage had already been taken by the one indoor servant, a staid,middle-aged woman. It was a light, prettily furnished apartment on thefirst floor, with a large window looking on to the garden at the back.There were flowers on the dressing-table--Miss Churton had placed themthere, she thought--and the warm fragrant air coming in at the openwindow seemed to bring nature strangely near to her. Looking away, wherethe trees did not intercept the view, it was all green country--gently-sloping hills, and the long Eyethorne wood, and rich meadow-land, wheresleepy-looking cows stood in groups or waded knee-deep in the pasture. Itwas like an earthly paradise to her senses, but just now her mind wasclouded with a great distress. Mary's strange words to her, and thewarning that she would be cast out of Mary's heart, that it would beagain with her as it had been before entering into this new life ofbeautiful scenes and sweet thoughts and feelings, if she allowed herselfto love her new teacher and companion, filled her with apprehension. Shesat by the window looking out, but with a dismayed expression in heryoung eyes; and then she remembered how Mary, in a sudden tempest ofrage, had once struck her, and how her heart had almost burst with griefat that unjust blow; and now it seemed to her that Mary's words if nother hand had dealt her a second blow, which was no less unjust; andcovering her face with her hands she cried silently to herself. Then sheremembered how quickly Mary had repented and had made amends, loving hermore tenderly after having ill-treated her in her anger. It consoled herto think that Mary had so great an affection for her; and perhaps, shethought, the warning was necessary; perhaps if she allowed her heart tohave its way, and to give all that this lovely and loving girl seemed toask, Mary would be less to her than she had been. She resolved that shewould strive religiously to obey Mary's wishes, that she would keep awatch over herself, and not allow any such tender feelings as she hadexperienced in the garden to overcome her again. She would be MissChurton's pupil, but not the intimate, loving friend and companion shehad hoped to be after first seeing her.

While Fan sat by herself, occupied with her little private trouble, whichdid not seem little to her, downstairs in the small drawing-room therewas another trouble.

"Before you go up to your room I wish to speak to you, Constance," saidher mother.

"All right, Jane," said Mr. Churton to his wife. "I am just going to runup to the village for an hour. You don't require me any more, do you?"

"I think you should remain here until this matter is settled, andConstance is made clearly to understand what Miss Starbrow's wishes are.My wishes, which will be considered of less moment, I have no doubt,shall be stated afterwards."

"Very well, my dear, I will do anything you like. At the same time, Ithink I really must be going. I have been kept in all day, you know, andshould like to take a little--ahem--constitutional."

"Yes, Nathaniel, I have no doubt you would. But consider me a little inthis. I have succeeded in getting this girl, and you know how much themoney will be to us. Do you think it too much to keep away from yourfavourite haunt in the village for a single day?"

"I insist on your staying here, Nathaniel. You know how little regard ourdaughter has for my wishes or commands; and as Miss Starbrow has spokento us both, you cannot do less than remain to corroborate what I have totell Constance."

Her daughter reddened at this speech, but remained silent.

"Well, well, my dear, if you will only come to the point!" he exclaimedimpatiently.

"Constance, will you give me your attention?" said her mother, turning toher.

"Yes, mother, I am attending."

"Miss Starbrow has informed us that Miss Affleck, although of gentlebirth on her father's side, was unhappily left to be brought up in a verypoor quarter of London, among people of a low class. She has had littleinstruction, except that of the Board School, and never had the advantageof associating with those of a better class until this lady rescued herfrom her unfortunate surroundings. She is of a singularly sweet,confiding disposition, Miss Starbrow says, and has many other goodqualities which only require a suitable atmosphere to be developed. MissStarbrow will value at its proper worth the instruction you will giveher; and as to subjects, she has added nothing to what she had written tous, except that she does not wish you to force any study on the girl towhich she may show a disinclination, but rather to find out for yourselfany natural aptitude she may possess. And what she particularly requestsof us is, that no questions shall be put to her and no reference made toher early life in London. She wishes the girl to forget, if possible, hersuffering and miserable childhood."

"I shall be careful not to make any allusion to it," replied the other,her face brightening with new interest. "Poor girl! She began to saysomething to me about her early life in London when we were in thegarden, and then checked herself. I dare say Miss Starbrow has told hernot to speak of it."

"Then I suppose you had already begun to press her with questions aboutit?" quickly returned Mrs. Churton.

"No; she spoke quite spontaneously. The flowers, the garden, the beautyof the country, so strangely different to her former surroundings--thatsuggested what she said, I think."

Her mother looked unconvinced. "Will you remember, Constance, that it isMiss Starbrow's wish that such subjects are not to be brought up andencouraged in your conversations with Miss Affleck? I cannot command you.It would be idle to expect obedience to any command of mine from you. Ican only appeal to your interest, or whatever it is you now regard asyour higher law."

"I have always obeyed you, mother," returned Miss Churton with warmth. "Ishall, as a matter of course, respect Miss Starbrow's and your wishes inthis instance. You know that you can trust me, or ought to know, andthere is no occasion to insult me."

"Insult you, Constance! How can you have the face to say such a thing,when you know that your whole life is one continual act of disobedienceto me! Unhappy girl that you are, you disobey your God and Creator, andare in rebellion against Him--how little a thing then must disobedienceto your mother seem!"

Miss Churton's face grew red and pale by turns. "Mother," she replied,with a ring of pain in her voice, "I have always respected your opinionsand feelings, and shall continue to do so, and try my best to please you.But it is hard that I should have to suffer these unprovoked attacks; andit seems strange that the girl's coming should be made the occasion forone, for I had hoped that her presence in the house would have made mylife more bearable."

"You refer to Miss Affleck's coming," said her mother, without stoppingto reply to anything else, "and I am glad of it, for it serves to remindme that I have not yet told you my wishes with regard to your futureintercourse with her."

At this point Mr. Churton, unnoticed by his wife, stole quietly to thedoor, and stepping cautiously out into the hall made his escape.

"You need not trouble to explain your wishes, mother," said Miss Churton,with flushing cheeks. "I can very well guess what they are, and I promiseyou at once that I shall say nothing to cause you any uneasiness, or tomake any further mention of the subject necessary."

"No, Constance, I have a sacred duty to perform, and our respectiverelations towards Miss Affleck must be made thoroughly clear, once forall."

"Why should you wish to make it clear after telling me that you cannottrust me to obey your wishes, or even to speak the truth? Mother, I shallnot listen to you any longer!"

"You _shall_ listen to me!" exclaimed the other; and rising andhurrying past her daughter, she closed the door and stood before it as ifto prevent escape.

Miss Churton made no reply; she walked to a chair, and sitting downdropped her hat on the floor and covered her face with her hands. How sadshe looked in that attitude, how weary of the vain conflict, and howdespondent! For a little while there was silence in the room, but thegirl's bowed head moved with her convulsive breathing, and there was alow sound presently as of suppressed sobbing.

"Would to God the tears you are shedding came from a contrite andrepentant heart," said the mother, with a tremor in her voice. "But theyare only rebellious and passing drops, and I know that your stony heartis untouched."

Miss Churton raised her pale face, and brushed her tears away with anangry gesture. "Forgive me, mother, for such an exhibition of weakness. Isometimes forget that you have ceased to love me. Please say what youwish, make things clear, add as many reproaches as you think necessary,and then let me go to my room."

Mrs. Churton checked an angry reply which rose to her lips, and sat down.She too was growing tired of this unhappy conflict, and her daughter'stears and bitter words had given her keen pain. "Constance, you would notsay that I do not love you if you could see into my heart. God knows howmuch I love you; if it were not so I should have ceased to strive withyou before now. I know that it is in vain, that I can only beat the air,and that only that Spirit which is sharper than a two-edged sword, andpierceth even to the dividing of the bones and marrow, can ever rouse youto a sense of your great sin and fearful peril. I know it all only toowell. I shall say no more about it. But I must speak to you further aboutthis young girl, who has been entrusted to my care. When I replied to theadvertisement respecting her, I thought too much about our worldlyaffairs and the importance of this money to us in our position, andwithout sufficiently reflecting on the danger of bringing a girl at soimpressible an age under your influence. The responsibility rests withme, and I cannot help having some very sad apprehensions. Wait,Constance, you must let me finish. I have settled what to do, and I haveMiss Starbrow's authority to take on myself the guidance of the girl inall spiritual matters. I spoke to her about it, and regret to have to saythat she seems absolutely indifferent about religion. I was deeplyshocked to hear that Miss Affleck has never been taught to say a prayer,and, so far as Miss Starbrow knows, has never entered a church. MissStarbrow seemed very haughty and repellent in her manner, and declined,almost rudely, to discuss the subject of religious teaching with me, butwould leave it entirely to me, she said, to teach the girl what I likedabout such things. It is terrible to me to think how much it may and willbe in your power to write on the mind of one so young and ignorant, andwho has been brought up without God. Constance, I will not attempt tocommand, I will ask you to promise not to say things to her to destroythe effect of my teaching, and of the religious influence I shall bringto bear on her. I am ready to go down on my knees to you, my daughter, toimplore you, by whatever you may yet hold dear and sacred, not to bringso terrible a grief on me as the loss of this young soul would be. Forinto my charge she has been committed, and from me her Maker and Fatherwill require her at the last day!"

"There is no occasion for you to go on your knees to me, mother. I repeatthat I will obey your wishes in everything. Surely you must know that,however we may differ about speculative matters, I am not immoral, andthat you can trust me. And oh, mother, let us live in peace together. Itis so unspeakably bitter to have these constant dissensions between us. Iwill not complain that you have been the cause of so much unhappiness tome, and made me a person to be avoided by the few people we know, ifonly--if only you will treat me kindly."

"My poor girl, do you not know that it is more bitter to me, a thousandtimes, than to you? Oh, Constance, will you promise me one thing?--promise me that you will go back to the Bible and read the words ofChrist, putting away your pride of mind, your philosophy and criticalspirit; promise that you will read one chapter--one verse even--everyday, and read it with a prayer in your heart that the Spirit who inspiredit will open your eyes and enable you to see the truth."

"No, mother, I cannot promise you that, even to save myself from greaterunhappiness than you have caused me. It is so hard to have to go over theold ground again and again."

"I have, I hope, made you understand my wishes," returned her mothercoldly. "You can go to your room, Constance."

The other rose and walked to the door, where she stood hesitating for afew moments, glancing back at her mother; but Mrs. Churton's face hadgrown cold and irresponsive, and finally Constance, with a sigh, left theroom and went slowly up the stairs.

CHAPTER XV

For the rest of the day peace reigned at Wood End House. Mr. Churton,whose absence at mealtime was never made the subject of remark, did notreturn to tea when the three ladies met again; for now, according to thatproverb of the Peninsula which says "Tell me who you are with, and I willtell you who you are," Fan had ceased to belong to the extensive genusYoung Person, and might only be classified as Young Lady, at all eventsfor so long as she remained on a footing of equality under the Churtonroof-tree.

There was not much conversation. Miss Churton was rather pale and subduedin manner, speaking little. Fan was shy and ill at ease at this her firstmeal in the house. Mrs. Churton alone seemed inclined to talk, and lookedserene and cheerful; but whether the late scene in the drawing-room hadbeen more transient in its effects in her case, or her self-command wasgreater, she alone knew. After tea they all went out to sit in the gardenfor an hour; Miss Churton taking a book with her, which, however, sheallowed to rest unread on her lap. Her mother had some knitting, whichoccupied her fingers while she talked to Fan. The girl, she perceived,was not yet feeling at home with them, and she tried to overcome herdiffidence by keeping up an easy flow of talk which required no answerfrom the other, chiefly about their garden and its products--flowers,fruit, and vegetables.

Presently they had a visitor, who came out across the lawn to themunannounced. He shook hands with the Churtons, and then with Fan, to whomhe was introduced as Mr. Northcott. A large and rather somewhat rough-looking young man was Mr. Northcott, in a clerical coat, for he wascurate of the church at Eyethorne. His head was large, and the hair and ashort somewhat disorderly beard and moustache brown in colour; the eyeswere blue, deep-set, and habitually down-cast, and had a trick of lookingsuddenly up at anyone speaking to him. His nose was irregular, his mouthtoo heavy, and there was that general appearance of ruggedness about himwhich one usually takes as an outward sign of the stuff that makes thesuccessful emigrant. To find him a curate going round among the ladies ina little rural parish in England seemed strange. He had as little of thatprofessional sleekness of skin and all-for-the-best placidity of mannerone expects to see in a clergyman of the Established Church as Mr.Churton had of that confident, all-knowing, self-assured look one wouldlike to see in a barrister's countenance before entrusting him with abrief.

He at once entered into conversation with Mrs. Churton, replying to somequestion she put to him; and presently Fan began to listen with deepinterest, for they were discussing the unhappy affairs of one of theEyethorne poor--a bad man who was always getting drunk, fighting with hiswife, and leaving his children to starve. The curate, however, did notseem deeply interested in the subject, and glanced not infrequently atMiss Churton, who had resumed her reading; but it was plain to see thatshe gave only a divided attention to her book.

Mrs. Churton was at length summoned to the house about some domesticmatter; then, after a short silence, the curate began a freshconversation with her daughter. He did not speak to her of parish affairsand of persons, but of books, of things of the mind, and it seemed thathis heart was more in talk of this description. Or possibly the personrather than the subject interested him. Miss Churton was living under acloud in her village, which was old-fashioned and pious; to be friendlywith her was not fashionable; he alone, albeit a curate, wished not to bein the fashion. He even had the courage to approach personal questions.

"Fan, I know what you are thinking of," said Miss Churton, turning to thegirl. "It is that you would like to go and caress the flowers again--youare such a flower-lover. Would you like to go and explore the orchard byyourself?"

Fan thanked her gladly, and going from them, soon disappeared among thetrees.

"You live in too small a place, too remote from the world, and old-worldin character, to be allowed to live your own life in peace," said thecurate, at a later stage of the conversation. "Your set here is composedof barely half a dozen families, and they take their cue from thevicarage. In London, in any large town, one is allowed to think what onelikes without the neighbours troubling their heads about it. Do you know,Miss Churton, it is strange to me that with your acquirements and talentyou do not seek a wider and more congenial field."

She smiled. "You must forgive me, Mr. Northcott, for having included youamong the troublers of my peace. It gives me a strange pleasure to tellyou this; it makes me strong to feel that I have your friendship andsympathy."

"You certainly have that, Miss Churton."

"Thank you. I must tell you why I remain here. I am entirely dependent onmy parents just now, and shrink from beginning a second dependent life--as a governess, for instance."

"There should be better things than that for you. You might get a goodposition in a young ladies' school."

"It would be difficult. But apart from that, I shrink from entering aprofession which would absorb my whole time and faculties, and from whichI should probably find myself powerless to break away. I have dreams andhopes of other things--foolish perhaps--time will show; but I am not in ahurry to find a position, to become a crystal. And I wish to live formyself as well as for others. I have now undertaken to teach MissAffleck, who will remain one year at least with us. I am glad that thishas given me an excuse for remaining where I am. I do not wish mydeparture to look like running away."

"I am glad that you have so brave a spirit."

"I did not feel very brave to-day," she replied, smiling sadly. "But alittle sympathy serves to revive my courage. Do you remember that passagein Bacon, 'Mark what a courage a dog will put on when sustained by anature higher than its own'? That is how it is with us women--those ofthe strong-minded tribe excepted; man is to us a kind of _meliornatura_, without whose sustaining aid we degenerate into abjectcowards."

"No, not joking," she quickly returned; "although I perhaps did not meanas much as I said. But I wish I could show my gratitude for the comfortyou give me--for upholding me with your stronger nature."

"Do you, Miss Churton? Then I will be so bold as to make a request,although I am perhaps running the risk of offending you. Will you come tochurch next Sunday? I don't mean in the morning, but in the evening.Please don't think for a moment that I have any faith in my power toinfluence your mind in any way. I am not such a conceited ass as toimagine anything of the sort. My motive for making the request was quiteindependent of any such considerations. My experience is that those wholose faith in Christianity do not recover it. I speak, of course, ofpeople who know their own minds."

"I know my own mind, Mr. Northcott."

"No doubt; and for that very reason I am not afraid to ask you this. Youused occasionally to come to church, so that it can't be scruples ofconscience that keep you away. As a rule, in London we always have a veryfair sprinkling of agnostics in a congregation, and sometimes more than asprinkling."

"I am not an agnostic, Mr. Northcott, if I know what that word means. Butlet that pass. In London the church-goer is in very many cases a strangerto the preacher; if he hears hard things spoken in the pulpit of thosewho have no creed, he does not take it as a personal attack. I absentedmyself from our church because the vicar in his sermon on unbeliefpreached against _me_. He said that those who rejected Christianityhad no right to enter a church; that by doing so they insulted God andman; and that their only motive was to parade their bitter scornfulinfidelity before the world, and that they cherish a malignant hatredtowards the faith which they have cast off, and much more in the samestrain. Every person in the congregation had his or her eyes fixed on me,to see how I liked it, knowing that it was meant for me; and I dare saythat what they saw gave them great pleasure. For a stronger nature thanmy own was not sustaining me then, but all were against me, and the agonyof shame I suffered I shall never forget. I could only shut my eyes andtry to keep still; but I felt that all the blood in my veins had rushedto my face and brain, and that my blood was like fire. I seemed to beable to see myself fiery red--redder than the setting sun--in the midstof all those shadowed faces that were watching me. I have hated that mansince, much as it distresses me to have such a feeling against any